


Just a bad dream

by kaskun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Parentlock, everyone is happy and TFP never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 04:17:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9367631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaskun/pseuds/kaskun
Summary: Set after the end of The Lying Detective, the events of The Final Problem were all just a bad dream. Basically a fluffy fix-it fix.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the end of The Lying Detective, the events of The Final Problem were all just a bad dream. Basically a fluffy fix-it fix.

The kettle clicked on.

John, his face pressed into the soft texture of the warm sofa, slowly grew aware of his returning senses. Sherlock had popped out of the flat half an hour ago with a wave over his shoulder and promise that he was going out to buy milk.

The hour had passed and a soft, baritone humming floated into the living room from the open kitchen ( _ Bach or Beethoven, John didn’t know _ ).

John sighed deeply, pushing away the remains of sleep that clung to his mind and left his memory hazy, flooded with the disturbing images of the nightmare that he had been awoken from.

Mad dreams of clowns and umbrella-sword-guns ( _ John snorted _ ), coffins and nursery rhymes, a dog that wasn’t a dog and a crazy woman named Eurus. And the worse dream, he shuddered, heavy chains at his ankles and a bottomless well with the sinking, darkest feeling he’d never be found again.

John didn’t open his eyes just quite yet.

He just breathed in and allowed the scent of the flat to settle and wash over him — the slight hint of ash, worn leather and clean cotton, burnt coffee and violin rosin—  and the horrible feeling dissolved. Washed away with the rain that lightly pelted the window overlooking the busy street. He was safe in 221B, and it had all been some horrible, twisted dream.

They were safe, both safe.

Rosie and Sherlock. The two people on this earth that he cared the most about were safe. 

No wells, no twisted puzzles and hanging men— just the sounds of a kettle bubbling, the chink of two mugs taken from the cupboard and set on the bench, and the soft, grey light of London streaming through the tall windows.

The absurdity of the nightmare seemed laughable now, a fever dream if there ever was one. Served him right, he scolded himself, for allowing Sherlock to drag him into a case that involved standing watch in a dockyard for five hours in the icy January rain.

The baby monitor, thankfully quiet except for soft breathing and the occasional whimper and rustle of sheets, sat on the coffee table on top of a stack of case files Sherlock had flipped through and discarded.

“I thought that you might want a rest,” said Sherlock, popping around the door to the — _ their—  _ kitchen, clutching two steaming mugs of tea and wearing the softest smile. “You looked like a drowned rat when we got home.”

“Cheers,” John pushed himself up with a groan, rubbing his red, tired eyes.

It had been a long week what with becoming a widower and a single parent in one blow, on top of finding daycare for Rosie ( _ John felt a twinge of guilt for dumping Rosie on poor, lovely and immensely kind Mrs.Hudson all the time _ ) and balancing shifts at the hospital. 

Sherlock had been there for him without complaint or qualms, he had even offered to look after Rosie and let John get some rest on his days off, and for that he was immeasurably thankful. It had been tough, but he couldn’t imagine how he would even cope without Sherlock.

“You had a dog as a kid right?” John spoke abruptly, clutching his mug of tea with a frown, still unable to fully shake away the unease.

“Yes.” Sherlock frowned. “Many people had a family dog as a child.”

“And it was  _ definitely _ a dog?”

Sherlock blinked at him slowly, almost concerned. “Yes…? I would go as far as to say it was exceptionally canine.”

“And you don’t by chance have a secret, crazy sister who's waiting her time in an institution to come find and torture you?”

Sherlock snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

And with those simple words John felt the tension melt away and a laugh bubbling in his tired chest. Sherlock frowned at his outburst but couldn’t help the corners of his mouth twitch in fondness.

“Bad dream?” offered Sherlock, settling onto the sofa next to him, resting his feet on a teetering pile of law magazines.

“You have no idea.” John let out a low breath and smiled fondly at the man.

That beautiful, insane, wonderful, tiresome and  _ infuriating _ man.  _ The _ best and most wisest man whom he had ever known.


End file.
